The stately mansion riseth beneath the builder’s hand,
When our children sleep in dust that mansion still may stand;
But a nobler and more lasting dwelling to the saints is given,
In a house not made with hands, eternal in the Heaven.
The poor in spirit and the meek, the merciful and pure,
On them the Saviour blessings breathed, for ever to endure;
Those persecuted for His sake, from friends or kindred driven,
Share a house not made with hands, eternal in the Heaven.
And those who deeply mourn their sins shall find there yet is room,
For such the Lord endured the cross, descended to the tomb;
He ready stands to welcome those whose contrite hearts are riven,
To a house not made with hands, eternal in the Heaven.
What matter, then, how lowly be the roof above our head,
What matter then how soon the stranger o’er our graves may tread,
If we are pressing on with hearts renewed and sins forgiven,
To a house not made with hands, eternal in the Heaven!